


In the Room

by daylight_angel



Series: The M*A*S*H Wing [1]
Category: MASH (TV), The West Wing
Genre: Bisexual Male Character, Found Family Tropes, Gen, Nonbinary Character, Political AU, eventual punnihawk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-11-12 05:32:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18004757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daylight_angel/pseuds/daylight_angel
Summary: The President has run his bike into a tree, 2,000 Cubans are on their way to Miami, someone ran their mouth off on national television, and that's just the start of the Potter administration's bad day.It'sThe West Wing, but with the 4077th crew dealing with the triumphs and pitfalls of being elected to the highest office in the land.





	1. POTUS, in a bicycle accident

**Author's Note:**

> to the pure MASH fans: You probably shouldn't read this unless you've seen the Pilot episode of The West Wing, unless you don't mind spoilers.
> 
> to the pure The West Wing fans: This is a retelling of the Pilot with the characters from the 1970s tv show MASH. If you haven't seen MASH I'd say go watch it, it's wonderful!

Margaret swipes her keycard at the checkpoint, her Secret Service agent nodding in solidarity at the men posted at the door, then continues onto the second security desk. The guard at this one lets her just flash her badge and continue without breaking her stride.

“It’s a nice morning, Ms. Houlihan,” he says pleasantly as she passes.

“We’ll take care of that in a hurry, won’t we Mike,” she says sarcastically.

“Yes ma’am,” he agrees, and she smiles, turning the corner and muscling through the doors.

“Don’t shoot the messenger,” an intern says fearfully as he passes, pushing a report into her hands.

“Why the hell not?” she bites back, secretly enjoying the way he yelps and scurries off.

“Senior staff in five minutes?” asks another passerby.

“Please be on on time for once Cutler,” she calls over her shoulder.

She says hello and good morning to a few more people whose names she barely remembers as she walks towards her first destination.  

“Henry!” Margaret yells out, scooting around Maxwell Klinger to file one of the reports someone had handed her. She forgets what it’s about as soon as it has left her hand.

“Morning Margaret," Klinger says.

“Hey Klinger. Is he in yet?” Margaret asks, looking down at him at the communal desk. The logic behind the decision to share assistants with the whole staff instead of having people assigned to specific senior staff was lost in the haze of transition, but she’s so glad she only has to share Klinger with Henry Blake.

“Yeah,” Max says, stirring their coffee.

Margaret waits a minute. “Can you get him?”

“Henry!” Klinger bellows, standing up in his chair a little.

“Oh, thanks,” Margaret says sarcastically.

“I heard it’s broken,” Klinger says, their nose for gossip somehow bigger than their actual nose.

“It’s a mild sprain.”

“I heard-”

“You heard wrong, he’ll be back by the end of today.”

“And what was the cause of the accident?” they say archly.

“What are you, from State Farm? Go, do your job!” she barks back. Klinger raises an eyebrow and she sighs.

“He was swerving to avoid a tree,” she says, walking out of the bullpen and towards Blake’s office.

“And?” he asks eagerly.

“He was unsuccessful!”

Henry waves as she walks in, still on the phone. “Yeah, just, I understand, just don’t do anything until you talk to Justice.”  He hangs up, leaning over to scribble something on his desk. “Hey Margaret.”

She props her hand on her hip, watching him knock over a cup of pens in his haste. “Blake, how many Cubans have crammed themselves into these fishing boats?”

“Look,” he says, scooping up pens and moving out quickly from behind the desk. “First of all you gotta know these aren’t fishing boats. I know fishing boats, and these aren’t it.” He leans back over the desk to grab a report he forgot. “They’re making the trip from Havana in fruit baskets, okay? Let's be clear ‘bout that.”

“We are,” she sighs, following him out the door.

“My desk, if it could float, would look good to them right now.” He starts down the hall to her office, her a step behind his long strides.

“Klinger!” she calls back, expecting him to follow. “How many are there?”

“Dunno,” Blake shrugs.

“What time did they leave?”

“Dunno.”

“Do we know when they’ll get here?”

“No, we do not.”

She raises an eyebrow, looking down at an unrelated report Klinger hands her. “True or false, if I stood on high ground in Key West with a good pair of binoculars I’d be just as informed as I am now.”

“That’s true,” Henry says, tripping through the hallway. “We should send in the coast guard.”

“Henry,” she groans, taking a sip of coffee and handing off the report.

“No, uh, what if the DEA thought they had drugs?”

“Henry!” and now even Klinger looks scandalized, clutching reports to his chest.

“If the DEA or Navy intel thought they had drugs,” Henry insists as they skirt through the foyer, “wouldn’t they need to go out there and search the rafts with, you know, guns and blankets?” he peers back at her hopefully. She doesn't dignify that with a response and Henry mercifully drops it.

"Go on," she says, Klinger rushing ahead to her office, but Henry hesitates.

"Did he say anything?" he asks nervously.

"Did he _say_ anything?" she scoffs. "The President's pissed as hell and so am I." 

"I know."

"We gotta work with these people! And who the hell, I mean _really_ , strutting around like-" 

"I know," Henry groans. 

"Al Caldwell's a good man!” she continues to rant.

"Technically Caldwell wasn't there–" 

"I'm _saying_ ,” she insists shrilly, "you can't take everyone on the Christian Right, dump them in a big pile and label them stupid, we need these people!" 

"Uh huh," Henry says unconvincingly, stopping by the copier. "It was stupid."

"Damn straight," she agrees, walking away.

"It was right, though!" he calls after her.

"Like I don't know that," she mutters, turning into the Oval.

“Oh, Major Houlihan!” Father Mulcahy greets her as she walks in.

“I haven’t been a major since ‘91,” she corrects, smiling.

“Yes ma’am. Have they done an x-ray?”

“Yep,” she responds, dropping her reports on the Resolute Desk.

“Is anything broken?”

“A four thousand dollar touring bike Donald swore he’d never lend anyone, until I convinced him the President needed it,” she admits sheepishly.

“I don’t understand, how did the President–”

“Oh, I don’t  _know_ ,” Margaret interrupts, “He doesn’t know how to ride anything that doesn’t answer to a ridiculous name and do it’s business in the street?”

Mulcahy gives her a disapproving look. “Ms. Houlihan. You know I don’t like that kind of talk in the Oval Office.”

“Sorry Father.”

“Just in _this_  office, you understand?” he adds, with a smirk she swears he stole from Pierce.

She rolls her eyes and walks into her office where Klinger is waiting, holding the rest of the staff behind their door.

“Let them in,” she says, bracing herself for the onslaught of her staff.

“Here we go,” Klinger warns as they open the floodgates.

 

“Is there anything I can say other than the President rode his bike into a tree?” Hawkeye asks, blowing in from the hallway with Peg.

“ _You_ won’t be saying anything,” Margaret says archly. “I’m not putting you out there until this blows over, so Peg’s doing briefings for the foreseeable future.”

Peg and Hawkeye exchange a brief look before Hawkeye hands over his briefing book, nodding encouragingly.

“So,” Peg says, balancing the book on top of her stack of folders, “Is there anything  _I_ can say other than the President rode his bike into a tree?”

“He hopes never to do it again.”

“Seriously, Margaret, they’re laughing pretty hard,” Hawkeye points out.

“He rode his  _bicycle_  into a tree, what–, ‘The President, while riding a bicycle on his vacation, came to a sudden arboreal stop.’”

Hawkeye turns to Peg, grinning. “That work for you Hayden?”

“Sudden arboreal stop, they’re gonna love that,” she laughs back.

“God, what do you two want from me?” Margaret complains.

“Little love, Margaret,” Hawkeye winks, flopping back into a chair.

“What do you know about the Cubans?” She asks McIntyre as he walks in, ignoring the way Peg and Hawkeye cackle at their own jokes.

“No more than Henry,” Trapper shrugs. “Somethin’ between twelve hundred and two thousand Cubans left this morning from a village thirty miles south of Havana.”

Blake looks a little sheepish in the corner of the room, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Where they headed?” Klinger asks, curious.

“Vegas,” Peg cracks dryly, to Hawkeye's delight.

Trapper smiles too. “Miami, though it's not clear how sophisticated the navigational system is.”

“Pretty sure ‘that way is north, I hope,’ is the best they've got,” Henry pipes up.

“If one of these guys could throw a decent fastball we'd send in the _U.S.S._ _Eisenhower_ ,” Trapper grumbles, crossing his arms.

“ _Gentlemen_ ,” Charles interrupts, “Kindly forget the journey, the voyage is not our problem.”

“Then what is?” Hawkeye asks, kicking his feet up on the desk.

“No,” Margaret says without looking up, and Peg pushes his feet back down to the floor while he pouts. Winchester ignores the shenanigans with forced dignity and a disapproving look.

“What's our problem?” Henry repeats.

“What to do when the  _Nina,_  the _Pinta,_  and the _Get-me-the-hell-out-of-here_  reach Miami.”

“Options?” Margaret asks the room.

“Can't send them back,” Trapper says immediately. “They'll go to jail if they're lucky, an’ I doubt they are.”

“We will doubtlessly get pummeled in at least three congressional districts,” Winchester adds.

“Dade County, Florida,” Henry points out.

“Massachusetts has a decent sized Latino population,” Trapper adds about his home state, “and swings more and more Democratic in national elections.”

“Not to mention it’s wrong?” Hawkeye chimes in.

“That too,” Trapper agrees.

“What about Texas?” Peg asks.

“I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Keep Blake in the loop on this,” Margaret orders, ready to move on.

“My day’s a little tight,” Trapper starts, Hawkeye opening his mouth–

“Leave it alone Pierce!” the room says in unison.

“No fun, any of you.”

“Like I was sayin’,” Trap continues with a smirk, “My day’s a little tight and–”

“Deal with it,” Charles says.

“Happy to, but isn’t this more a military issue?” Trap asks, his attempt to pass the buck met with absolute silence.

“Military,” Margaret repeats flatly.

“Sure,” Trapper shrugs.

“You think the United States is under attack by twelve hundred Cubans in row boats?” Winchester asks.

“Not sayin’ I don’t like our chances.”

“It’s staggering to me we ever won an election.”

“Thomas wants to send in the guard,” Margaret says.

“He shouldn’t.”

“He’s right.” 

Henry and Trapper speak simultaneously and at exact opposites.

“You send in the guard you create a situation just rife with panic,” Hawkeye adds urgently.

“I agree with Blake and I agree with McIntyre and I agree with Pierce,” Charles says, “and you know how that makes me crazy.”

“Yes, I do,” Margaret says, rolling her eyes.

“They are fleeing for their _lives_ , you don’t have to start some childish game of Red Rover with Castro, but you do _not_  send in the National Guard.”

“You send food and you send doctors,” Peg agrees.

“Blake, see that INS is working with the Red Cross and the CDC,” Margaret instructs.

“I’ve got my guy from the CDC on the phon–”

“Go talk to him!”

Henry hops off the table he’s leaning on. “–and I’m gonna go, go talk to him,” he says, dashing out of the room.

“Moving on,” Margaret says, “Let’s talk about Pierce.”

All the eyes in the room turn to Hawkeye.

“Oh good,” he says, fluttering his fingers at everyone.


	2. There is nothing like a law student

“He’s not going to fire him!” Christy Brown scoffs.

“I’m telling you, Pierce is on his way out,” Billy Haskins of the D.C. Gazette whispers to the other reporter as they take their seats.

“Potter isn’t going to fire Hawkeye Pierce.”

“He needs these people, he’s going to _have_ to.”

“He’s not! He’s just not going to–”

“Christy, I had drinks with John McIntyre last night–”

“–And he said the President was gonna fire Hawkeye?” she responds incredulously.

“He’ll _have_  to,” Haskins insists, “He needs these people, and he’ll have to give them Hawkeye.”

Neither of them notice BJ Hunnicutt sitting down behind them until he looms over their chairs, an unpleasant smile plastered across his face.

“Billy, I don’t care _who_  your source is, we’re members of the White House Press Corps, not your high school journalism club. Have a little class, would you? Real reporters don’t print gossip.”

“It’s not good that they’re having Hayden do the briefing instead of Pierce, is all I’m saying,” Billy replies as Peggy Hayden takes the podium.

“Good morning,” she greets them. “The chief of orthopedics at St. John's Hospital has diagnosed the President with a mild sprain in his left ankle sustained while cycling into a large cypress tree.” The Press room laughs. “As you can see in the report being handed out now there are photographs of the President being offered help up from the Secret Service, refusing said help, and falling down again. By all means, enjoy yourself.”

She pauses to review her notes, (meticulous and in Hawkeye’s messy handwriting), and Brown pipes up. 

“Peg, has the President–?”

Peg’s professional smile doesn’t slip for a second, but the temperature in the room seems to go down a few degrees. “It’s a light day. Let’s just get through this, okay Christy? Item number two–”

Satisfied that Deputy Hayden has the press in control, Winchester stops watching the briefing and wanders back through the halls of the West Wing. He quickly finds his way to the Press Secretary's office, where Kellye is hanging outside the door with an untouched cup of coffee in hand, looking worried.

“Is he in?” Charles asks.

She nods. “I don’t think he’s left the building since last night.”

“Hmm,” Charles mutters, and slips into the office just as Hawkeye starts the previous nights broadcast for what must be the millionth time.

“...don’t believe in any God I pray to, Mr. Pierce,” the tiny Samuel Flagg on the television screen says. “Not any God I pray to.”

“Look fella,” Hawkeye responds on screen. “That’s because the God you pray to is too busy being indicted for tax fraud!”

“I should have just let Henry do the interview,” Hawkeye says, head in his hands. “It was a good line, at least.”

“Pierce–”

“Look, I already got chewed out by Margaret this morning after senior staff, what do you want.”

“I want you to keep your job.”

Hawkeye looks up. “How?”

“I’m going to make a suggestion which may facilitate your efforts, but please don’t take it as an indication that I’m at all fond of you,” Charles says.

“Right, of course.”

“In preparation for the Sunday morning radio address on family values-”

Hawkeye leaps up with a angry and manic look on his face. “When did _that_ get on the schedule?”

“Pierce, listen to me-”

“No, no, when did that get added to the schedule Charles?” Hawkeye says, affecting a posh accent on Winchester’s name.

“It is the regular Sunday morning–” Charles starts, but quickly gets over-shouted by Pierce’s rant.

" _Family values_! You know what that means Winchester, it’s code for homophobic, misogynistic, bigoted, chicken shit “opinions” of the Christian right–”

“Be that as it may,” Charles shouts back. “And I do not agree that it must by _definition_ mean those things, I have scheduled such an address because after your smug, calamitous,  _taunting_ appearance on Capitol Beat, our relationship with Al Caldwell is tenuous at best!”

Hawkeye looks somewhat chastened. “Al Caldwell wasn’t there,” he mutters.

“He was watching Pierce, I will guarantee you that,” Charles says, pulling down his suit coat in an attempt to calm down. “I’m meeting with Caldwell and a few others today about the address. Come to the meeting and play nice.”

“So we can put it in the papers that I did, yeah, yeah.” Hawkeye says, pacing. “Al Caldwell is friends with bad people and he should say so, screw politics! How about that?”

“You don’t run social policy for this government, Pierce! How about that!” Charles yells mockingly.

“Charles, I can-”

“Pierce, just _listen_ to me,” Winchester says, “It’s my job to tell the President that the best thing he can do from a public relations standpoint is show you the door, with prejudice, you know that.”

Hawkeye nods jerkily, pacing the room.

“However, unfortunately for me,” he continues, “You make this administration better. Come to the meeting, keep your job.” He leaves Hawkeye open mouthed as he wheels out of the office and across the bullpen to his own, bumping into Klinger as they rush by, trying to catch the Deputy Director of Communications.

“Trapper!” Klinger pants, catching up to the man’s long strides. “Margaret’s husband called.”

“That man hates me,” Trapper says, twirling a football in his hands.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You called his wife ‘Hot lips Houlihan’ in front of him at a fundraiser and then suggested you and her had sexual history,” Klinger says wryly.

Trap fixes him with a look. “I meant why did he call.”

“He wants you to-”

“I meant it as a compliment!” Trapper interrupts, following the previous thread of conversation. “And a joke, how long am I goin’ to get grief for it-"

“Well, a little bit longer, sir, because-”

“What did he want?”

Klinger rolls their eyes and consults the little notebook they’re carrying. “He was supposed to give a tour to some students from his niece’s fourth grade class and can’t make it. He wants you to do it instead.”

Trapper groans. “Why me? I’m no tour guide.”

Klinger shrugs. “You gotta, they wrote essays and everything.”

Trapper’s pager beeps. “Don’t know nothin’ about the White House,” he mutters, scrambling for the device. “ _Please_ let this be a national emergency.”

Klinger walks up to Ginger and consults with her about the tour while Trapper picks up the phone on Ginger’s desk and dials the number off his pager.

“Cashmere Escort Services,” a smooth voice says on the other end of the line. Trapper is barely paying attention, caught up in his own head and the stack of papers Ginger is handing him.

“Yeah, ya paged me?”

“Who is this?” the woman asks.

“John XF McIntyre, who’re you?” Trap says flirtatiously, still not fully paying attention.

“...There’s been a mistake.”

“Whatta ya’ mean?”

“This is Cashmere _Escort_ Services, sir,” the woman responds before hanging up, and Trapper’s stomach sinks.

“Page me,” he tells Ginger.

“You’re standing right here,” she responds, confused.

“Yeah, and I’m not going anywhere, just page me,” Trap says. Ginger raises an eyebrow but does it, the phone ringing more than once.

Both of them look down at the silent pager on the desk.

“You switched pagers with somebody,” she says, understanding dawning.

“Yeah, look, a woman’s about to page me, she won’t know why. Put her through anyway,” Trapper says, walking into his office and closing the door. When the phone finally rings he pounces.

“You called me?”

“Hi Lina,” Trapper says, the phone pushed hard to his ear.

“Hey, it's you,” she says sweetly. “Why did you call me?”

“Yeah, actually ya called me, and that’s because you have my pager, and I’ve got yours.”

“Oh.”

“Listen, can I come over real quick?”

The line is silent for a minute. “I...yeah.”

“Okay, good. Thanks.”

Ginger watches confused from the bullpen as Trapper hurriedly hangs up the phone and rushes out the door, his coat buttoned wrong in his haste. When he shows up at Lina’s apartment she’s waiting for him, pager in hand. Trapper calms down a bit, still looking over his shoulder as he steps inside.

“Thanks,” he says, taking the pager and closing the door behind him. “Look, can I ask you something?”

“Am I a hooker?” she says dryly.

“Uh, what I was gonna say is, are ya, in addition to being a law student and a bartender, what would have to be a very _very_ high priced call girl?”

“Uh huh.”

“But yeah, hooker works too,” he says honestly.

Lina laughs, a deep thing that Trapper can’t help but notice resembles one of his favorite laughs of Hawkeye’s, and he tries vainly not to be charmed by the similarity.

“Look, no judgement, but with my job–”

“Yes,” Lina admits. “I should’ve told you, but I wanted you to like me.”

“I do like you,” Trap says kindly, eyes warm. “I gotta go.” He moves to the door and stops, looks back at her. “Listen, I don’t–”

“Go. You don’t owe me anything.”

“It’s just there’s people who’d pay anythin’ to–”

“Go. It’s okay.”

With one last regretful look, Trapper goes.


	3. Don't you know me?

“I’m glad you agreed to meet with Winchester and Pierce today,” Margaret says, taking a sip of the coffee she's bought purely as an excuse to run into Al Caldwell.

“Yes, well it was a good idea. Winchester’s, I presume,” Caldwell responds.

“The President is a religious man, god fearing,” Margaret continues, ignoring the dig at either her or Hawkeye’s ability to make good choices for the administration. “A practicing Methodist, not to mention his work with Father Mulcahy–”

“Yes, yes, I know this, he’s spoken at my church,” Caldwell interrupts. “What I want to know is why he has to demonize us as a group?”

“Respectfully sir, your group has plenty of demons.”

“Every group has demons.”

Margaret raises an eyebrow. “You don’t have to tell me that Reverend, I’m a women in the Democratic Party.”

Caldwell chuckles. “Fair enough. All I’m asking is, why does the White House suddenly talk about the Christian Right like we’re all the same?”

“When you stand that close to a man like Samuel Flagg it’s hard not to paint you all with the same brush,” she answers honestly. Hawkeye may be louder about it, but she hates these people too, more than she can admit and stay in professional politics.

“I need him for political muscle,” Caldwell says.

“Mmm,” she says, taking a sip of her coffee in lieu of an response.

“I’m not looking for a holy war,” he adds, a note of desperation in his voice.

“Oh, I know that,” she says quickly, “and I’m sure we can keep this all from escalating further.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“It’s really a shame such a small thing got blown out of propor–”

“There you go again,” Caldwell gripes. “This is not a small thing!”

“Oh, no, I’m sorry Reverend, I meant–” she backpedals, cursing the clash of egos she’s been forced to deal with.

“If I do nothing else, I want to make sure you’re taking this seriously!” he insists, stopping in front of the gate.

Margaret stares at him, mouth slightly agape. “You don’t think we’re taking this seriously? Reverend, twenty four hours ago the President ordered me to _fire_ Hawkeye Pierce!”

Caldwell goes a bit pink. “Well that’s regrettable.”

“I’ve been trying to talk him out of it ever since,” she says, urging him to start walking again. “But the President’s stubborn, and it’s ten to one odds on whether Hawkeye still has a job at the end of today. I really don’t know how much more seriously we could take this sir.”

“Honestly, that is truly regrettable,” he repeats.

“Yes, it is.”

They walk in silence for a moment before Margaret checks her watch and turns back to him.

“Anyway, I’ve got a meeting, but I’m glad Charles arranged your sit down this afternoon,” she says, watching him carefully.

“Oh, so am I.”

Caldwell splits off as Margaret re-enters the White House and heads up to her office, just missing McIntyre as he also returns, scowling at his pager.

Ginger catches him in the lobby. “You’re late,” she frets at him. “Margaret’s niece’s tour group is here already.”

“Sorry,” he apologizes, shrugging out of his coat. “I’m having kind of a weird day.”

“You’re supposed to tell them about the building and its history. Is there anything you need?”

“I need someone to tell _me_ about the building and its history.”

“Fake it,” she suggests.

“You sure I’m the only one who can do this?”

Ginger shoots him a look.

Trapper sighs and stops in the door to the Roosevelt room. “Which one is Margaret’s niece?”

“I don’t know, what does it matter?”

“I wanna make a good impression.” Ginger peers into the room full of kids and shrugs.

“Great help you are,” Trapper teases, and enters the room. There’s fifteen or so elementary school age kids crowded around the table, staring starry eyed at everything they can see. He walks up to and shakes the hand of the blonde woman standing with the kids.

“I’m John McIntyre,” he says, checking her out subtly. “You must be their teacher?”

She nods. “It’s a pleasure to be here Mr. McIntyre-”

“John, please,” he flirts back, and she smiles.

“In that case, I’m Ruth, and these-” the pitch of her voice changes and she waves at the kids, “-are the fourth graders who wrote the best essays on why they should come to the White House.”

Trapper puts on his own version of the kid voice and claps his hands. “Great! Well, I'm very excited to meet you all.” He walks over to the head of the table and starts bullshitting about the history of the room and the building, interweaving bits about his job into the patter. He has them all going for a minute, he’s always had a talent for a good story and it’s what makes him such a good speechwriter, but it isn't long before the teacher interrupts him and drags him out into the hall.

“How ya’ doing?” Trap asks, a twinkle in his eyes.

“Are you, by any chance, a complete moron?” she asks, livid as Hawkeye on a bad day, or Margaret on an average one.

“On this subject? A bit, yeah.”

“The 18th President was _Grant_ , the Roosevelt room is named for Theodore!”

“Really?” Trap says amused.

“There's a six foot portrait of Teddy Roosevelt in there!”

“Shoulda put it together.”

“Oh for-” she throws up her hands and starts to go back into the room, but Trap catches her by the wrist.

“Hey, hang on. Can ya tell me which one of those kids is Margaret Houlihan’s niece?”

Ruth looks pointedly down at his hand encircling her wrist until he lets go. She sniffs and puts her hands on her hips. It’s a powerful stance that Trapper admires, both in a personal and professional way. “Why?”

“I'd like to make her smile, see that she has a good time. Go a long way with my boss, make my life a hell of a lot easier.”

“These kids, _all_ of them, worked very hard to get here. And I'm not inclined to make your life easier,” she responds, looking down her nose at him, and it's the last straw in what's been a very trying twenty four hours.

“Look kid,” he says, pointing a finger at her, “I've had a bad day. A very bad day, since the Times published a poll saying Americans feel the White House has lost drive and focus, which won't be helped by the footage of the President runnin’ his bike into a damn tree, the Coast Guard is fishin’ Cubans out of the Atlantic with no help from the Governor of Florida, a good friend ‘a mine might get fired for going on tv and _making sense,_ and, as it turns out, I accidentally slept with a prostitute last night!” He whisper yells, voice strained. “Will you please, for the love of god, tell me which of those kids is my bosses niece.”

Ruth fixes him with a look. “Me.”

“You,” Trapper says flatly.

“Ruth Houlihan,” she says, holding out her hand to shake again. “Nice to meet you.”

“Margaret's niece's fourth grade class,” he says, hysterical laughter threatening to overtake him.

“Uh huh.”

“Fuck.”

**Author's Note:**

> _In the Room _is Alan Alda's first appearance on _The West Wing _, and delightfully close to _In the Room Where It Happens _, from Hamilton.______
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> _Thanks to everyone at the Swamp who cheered this on, I hope you all enjoy!___  
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